Wednesday, September 30, 2015

On my commute to work the other day,
I was frustrated by the glacial pace of the underground exodus. Normally, New
Yorkers quite literally sprint up the stairs to get the hell out of the subway.
I reached the second flight and spotted/smelled the culprit: a giant mound of
human shit rested in the middle of the steps. *Happy Wednesday*. Now, this inconvenience
could easily have been the present of some drunken frat boy on a dare. More
plausibly, it was the product of a homeless(wo)man.

As someone who has a home (albeit a
very cramped, poorly functioning one), it’s easy to look at homelessness as a
binary fact: you’re either living on the streets or you’re not. After reading
Nick Flynn’s award winning and brilliantly titled memoir Another Bullshit Night in Suck City*, I learned that actually there
is a great deal of fluidity within the homeless community. The scene within a
shelter is continually in flux based on weather, familial support, occupation,
pride, etc. While this seems self-evident, I do think our tendency to simplify
and condense is so ingrained in us that we often look at a person in a shelter
and immediately categorize them as dispossessed, even if that might just be a
short term situation.

How could I gain such axiomatic
insight from a book? Well, in short: it’s about a social worker who is reunited
with his homeless father after years of estrangement. Nick was raised by a
single mother while his absentee father wandered about Boston, occasionally
sending his children eccentric letters that detailed some elaborate heist or
shenanigan. Despite Nick’s understandable revulsion towards the man, he finds
himself following in the adrift footsteps of his paternal legacy. They are both
aspiring writers who cannot find a foothold in that industry. Their lives are
shaped by drugs and alcohol; every activity is laced with the urge to suppress.
From an outsider’s perspective, it appears that Nick and his father are on
parallel tracks. Subjectively, Nick is disturbed by the notion that he’s
destined to fall short of societal and self-expectations. He wonders if failure
is part of his lineage—if indignity is in his blood. Once he enters his early
twenties, Nick starts working at a shelter, so ironically, the homeless pay his
rent. He vaguely knows that his dad lives on the streets; clearly, although he
is disgusted by his father, he is also in some ways deeply drawn to him. His
choice to remain within a scene in which his dad could pop up at any moment,
like a “drunken jack in the box”, opens up Pandora’s psychological box (Flynn,
225). There is fear and unease associated with the possible confrontation of
his demons. Is he concerned for his father’s well being? Does he need closure
for his years of fatherlessness? Is he simply curious about the madman being
the letters? Does he have a desire to affirm the differences between him and
his father—a way to negate the similarities by pinpointing and refining what
they are exactly? In some ways, his dad is a compass that allows Nick to weave
in and out of these questions, sentiments, and self-reflections. A compass with
the magnets all screwed up, if you will.

Sure enough, his dad eventually
shows up as a patron of the shelter. Nick reveals, “some part of me knew he
would show up, that if I stood in one place long enough he would find me, like
you’re taught to do when you’re lost. But they never taught us what to do if
both of you are lost, and you both end up in the same place, waiting” (Flynn,
24). With this new development, there is some unsettling role reversal—he’s
taking care of his dad even though his dad never took care of him. They’re
“living together” in adulthood rather than childhood. What an odd and
disorienting experience—and keep in mind that this is a memoir, this
twilight-zoney business actually
happened. Nick ponders the implications of their new relationship. He sees a
homeless guy on a bench and wonders, “if this is my father, if I leave a
sandwich beside his sleeping body, does that become a family meal? Is this
bench now our dinner table?” (Flynn, 248).

So, the storyline of this book is
exceptional, but is it expressed well? Nick Flynn is primarily a poet and this
profession certainly suffuses through his tragically beautiful memoir. It is
definitely a heavy read, but it’s something that feels somehow necessary—both
for him to put his feelings into words and for me to read and attempt to
empathize. It is a brutally honest disclosure of his search for an essential
self. He is an introspective guy who is profoundly shaped by his experiences of
fatherlessness and unique re-fathering. Some teachers advise writers to “show,
not tell”—Nick Flynn shows and tells.
I would LOVE to hear him do a reading because I imagine his words would sound
poignantly lyrical aloud.

Even though the memoir’s tone is
generally somber, Nick is cynically funny throughout. After a particularly
heart-wrenching family event, someone asked him how he was doing. Nick
mockingly remarks, “He might as well ask, “Besides
that, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you like the play?” (Flynn, 156). Lawlz. His dark
humor and creativity augments rather than detracts from his message. He
punctuates his story with imaginative analogies or poetic sidetracks and it
effectively tugs at the heart strings. For instance, he spends one chapter
(four pages) just listing different words/phrases that mean “drunk”.
Additionally, oftentimes he quotes his father or describes an episode within
his father’s life. While Nick did investigate his father’s factual history to
some degree, these depictions are mostly retrospective superimpositions by
Nick—they are expressions of what he imagine his father's thoughts were and what
his destitute situation must have felt like. It is a blend of nonfiction and
fiction, and that is where his talent really shines through.

A sign of a good book is when
certain passages haunt you for months, even years to come. I read this memoir a
few months ago for a book club with my friends you’ve encountered in the
past—Matt and Will—and I’m only just now humpday-hardbacking it! I was
reluctant for so long because I felt that my review wouldn’t do it justice—it’s
such an intense story with ties to an endemic socioeconomic issue. One chapter
that has spoken to me since I put down the book is titled “Ham”. It consists of
an intricately well thought out analogy to the biblical Noah. It is a
remarkably applicable comparison of fathers with grandiose ideas and sons grappling
with the hopelessness of an inevitable inheritance and a poor predestination.
Like father, like son. That’s not great when your dad is a homeless, penniless,
loveless, drunkard. Luckily, my dad is a loving, good-souled hunter with an impressive beard and a passion for dachshunds. Hopefully, I'll end up looking something like this:

During his upbringing, both Nick
and his father loosely held on to the idea that writing is a noble profession
that justifies and maybe even necessitates struggle. After all, “to be a poet
digging ditches is very different from being a mere ditch digger” (Flynn, 15).
They inwardly thought that maybe homelessness isn’t so bad because it’s an *experience*-- it contributes
to an interesting personage and provides material to write about. Being a
struggling writer doesn’t mean you’re not talented… you’re just *undiscovered*.
Finally, with this memoir, Nick Flynn is discovered. He’s redeemed. And this is
a very aggressively beautiful transformation to witness. All in all, I give Another Bullshit Night in Suck City5
out of 5 camel humps. Read it and perhaps you’ll have enough good luck to
not encounter shit on your commute.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

“It might seem a bit reckless to be
picking up drugs on the way to Heathrow, but my need for a regular supply of
narcotics would not be constrained by the exigencies of international air
travel. I generally traveled with drugs up my arse in the belief that should
customs officers decide to pursue this unsavory line of inquiry my day would be
ruined and the discovery of crack or heroin couldn’t make it much worse” (First-Class Twit, section 24). Here you
have an apposite excerpt from Russell Brand’s 2010 memoir My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up*. An eccentric
celebrity who has been to rehab for sex addiction and drug dependency wrote
about the outlandish junkie-riddled escapades of his formative and young-adult
years and it landed on the New York Times
bestseller list. Why am I reading and reviewing a book by Brand? Well, aside
from the fact that he has phenomenal hair and I like Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I enjoy having a *back-pocket book*.
This is a book(y wook) that I can occasionally whip out when I’m wine-buzzed
and I don’t have to take too seriously. If you’re wearing cargo shorts, you can
also have a *side-pocket book* but then you’d have to cope with the indignity
of owning and sporting cargo shorts in public.

The memoir popped up under my
Oyster books account recommendations--an online book source that I reference in
my Your Movie Sucks review. I thought it fell
perfectly into the category of
books-I-want-to-read-but-don’t-necessarily-want-to-buy. Honestly, his talent
surprised me. He dabbles in impressive poetry, references philosophers I
personally admire, shares entertaining stories, and knows when to be
retrospectively contemplative about his destructive exploits. Basically, it’s a
tour through the crazy shit he’s done in his life (your classic prostitute,
substance-abuse, self-harming, unemployment cocktail) distilled through a
comedic lens. You learn about his early misogynism—like when he broke up with
one of his infinite number of exes, returned the key to her apartment, and then
used a clandestine copy he had made to go back and steal things when she wasn’t
home (Is This a Cash Card I See Before Me,
section 18). You hear about the concessions he made, the boundaries he crossed,
and the sinking environment he stepped into when his heroin addiction reached
its heights. You discover how he latched on to comedy as a means to weasel out
of depression and keep his head above the murky waters of despair. And all
while maintaining that impeccable mane!

Throughout his book(y wook) is a
thread of introspection as lively as the threads of his bohemian-styled
wardrobe. He acknowledges that he is a grandiose character, admitting that he
treats life as a never ending performance. Brand has never been one to color in
the lines or stick to the script. As a youngster, this took a self-destructive
turn; the search for identity and “absolute self” was precarious because he
constantly adopted different personas that varied depending on his audience at
the time. The memoir has a dark tinge to it that reads breathlessly honest—while
comedy is a valuable distraction from “the tyranny of life’s minutiae”, the
need to resourcefully unwind is very palpable for him (First-Class Twit, section 24). He says, “You might have a glass of
wine, or a joint, or a big delicious blob of heroin to silence your silly
brainbox of its witterings, but there has to be some form of punctuation, or
life just seems utterly relentless” (April
Fool, section 1). Now, purportedly sober for 13 years, he relies on
creative career endeavors rather than a narcotic abyss.

I see him in a different light now and I
respect his intelligence, which I suppose was a motivating factor behind him
writing the book(y wook) in the first place. Balancing his wit and intellectual
aptitude with the drawbacks seemingly inherent in the memoir genre, I give My Booky Wook3 out of 5 camel humps.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Take a second to reflect on the
most appallingly miserable thing you’ve ever had to do. Got it? Exponentiate
that by twenty.We’ll call that incident
“A”. Now, think about a situation in which you or a close friend felt
profoundly degraded. Exponentiate that by twenty. We’ll call that incident “B”.
Finally, multiply “A” by “B”. This monstrosity of a result is no match for the
unbearable experience of trudging through William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch*. I wouldn’t even call what
I had to do “reading”. Before I unload a list of reasons supporting its
gratuitous intolerability, let me make a few things perfectly clear:

1)It’s not that I can’t handle vulgarity. I’m like
kind of a gross person and I certainly don’t expect all of my books to reside
on a pedestal of propriety. I appreciate Bukowski(just recently purchased Post Office—can’t wait). I’m not easily
offended and I categorically oppose all forms of censorship and book banning. Obscene
language/content does not faze me nor is it the core of my complaint.

2)I don’t shy away from books about drugs. Much
merit can be found in drug literature—fromHuxleyto Kerouacto Hunter S. Thompson, and
everything in between. You can talk negatively about drugs, speak positively
about drugs, be on drugs, etc. and create something of artistic significance.

3)I can enjoy novels regardless of the existence
of a clearly defined plot. Naked Lunch
is experimental in that each page can (theoretically) be read individually, at
random. Certainly, there is no linear narrative. I so badly want to relish in that unbound, vignette prose. I’m so incapable of doing so because this is
not the product of a respectable author. It’s the haphazard garbage of a heroin
addict—quite literally. In 1951, he accidentally shot his wife in the head
while aiming for a glass that she balanced atop. That’s cute. But remember—this
book isn’t bad because the author was high all the time. The only reason Naked Lunch receives any attention is
because it’s jarring. Personally, I don’t automatically assume that because
something has shock-value, it’s worthy of my time. This man is talking out of
his ass. Of course that’s going to grab attention, but that does not necessarily
implicate that his work is reputable literature.

Burroughs (1914-1997) came to fame
in the Beat generation. I desperately want to love the authors of that era
because their subject matter sounds so beautiful and free. But they disappoint!
Hunter S. Thompson wrote with the same laissez faire attitude and then added a layer of
profundity to his writing. He recounts his putting-around but also
commentates—he’s simultaneously within that world and without. Notably,
Thompsonhated Kerouac—or so my friend Callie told me over a glass (or four) of
wine, and I’ve taken that to be an absolute fact ever since.Hunter S. Thompsondisliked Jack Kerouac,
tell all of your friends!

After a while of reading and re-reading,
questioning my own sanity and wondering if some obscure, deeper meaning was
eluding me, I realized that a clever writing style couldn’t entirely make up
for lack of substance. This shitty excuse for a book reads as if a 15-year-old
sadistic, sex-addled junkie stumbled upon a thesaurus and threw some big words
into his incomprehensible orgiastic fantasy for good measure. Does this seem
remotely on par with the writing skills of his generation? Despite my
reservations on Kerouac, I recognize that he was a very talented writer,
perhaps because he adhered to a hazy
morality. His words still read like actual literature and not something that
belongs in a trashcan. Kurt Vonnegut once declared, “Any reviewer who expresses
rage and loathing of a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is
like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or
banana split.” Good point, but I don’t like chocolate or bananas. In my further
defense, he also said, “Literature should not disappear up its own asshole, so
to speak.”

Think I’m exaggerating on the book’s
repulsiveness? Instead of underlining phrases that speak to me as I typically
do, I was only able to mock Naked Lunch
and highlight the most ridiculous statements to share with you all. Because I suppose I’m part sadist
too, here are two particularly cringe-worthy excerpts. Full disclosure that
these are NSFW:

“Johnny extracts a
candiru from Mary’s cunt with his calipers…he drops it into a bottle of mescal
where it turns into a maguey worm…He gives her a douche of jungle
bone-softener, her vaginal teeth flow out mixed with blood and cysts” (Burroughs,
84).

THE ENTIRE THING IS LIKE THAT.
Here’s some more:

“The boy crumples to
his knees with a long “OOOOOOOOH,” shitting and pissing in terror. He feels the
shit warm between his thighs. A great wave of hot blood swells his lips and
throat. His body contracts into a foetal position and sperm spurts hot into his
face. The Mugwump dips hot perfumed water from alabaster bowl, pensively washes
the boy’s ass and cock, drying him with a soft blue towel.” (Burroughs,
63).

I’m immediately reminded of the
“nope, nope, nope” running-away Bitmoi. You’re probably still wondering what
the book is about. I HAVE NO IDEA. I truly could not tell you. What you see
above is what you get, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I didn’t
award this literary joke 0 out of 5 camel humps.

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Lyndsay West

About Me

I’m a 25 year old lover of reading and writing. I was born and raised in Dallas, Texas, and I graduated from the University of Virginia in 2013. Currently, I live in New York City making my writing mark on the world via freelance work. Other interests include religious studies, philosophy, psychology, dancing, and live music.

Follow my twitter: @humpdayhardback

*Words underlined/highlighted in red are links to websites with more info on the topic.